Saturday, December 31, 2016

A Boy With Daddy Issues Rips My Clothes Off

Plains, May 2015

Ever since I wimped out on Raphael, the Gay Psychic Angel, who was perfect in every way except that his arms didn't work, I have felt guilty.  I should have called -- I would have called -- except I kept imagining becoming his boyfriend, and being responsible for helping him eat and dress and use the bathroom -- how shallow!

So I decided that if I ever had such an opportunity again, I would go for it without hesitation.

The opportunity came in, of all places, a comic book store on the Plains.

I always feel out of place amid the fanboys and fantasy gamers, self-conscious about my age more than anything, so I rush in, get what I need, and rush out again.  But on that Saturday afternoon in May 2015, there were two guys standing in front of the New Arrival rack.

One was a hefty, bearded bear in his 40s.  He was picking up titles and showing them to his friend, who was small, slim, in his 20s.

And had cerebral palsy.

Back in college, I dated Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches, but his cerebral palsy resulted only in some stiffness, so he had to use crutches to get around, and some motor actions were difficult.

This guy had spastic movements (uncontrollable spasms in his arms), spasticity in his hands (they bent back), and gait disturbance (one leg dragged behind).

He turned and smiled at me. "We're almost done."

Slurred speech, too.

"Oh, don't worry.  Take your time."

He continued to smile.  The cruise was unmistakable.

I should say something else.  "Um...I heard that IDW is coming out with a new Donald Duck title.  Funny how Disney titles never last."

"Well, you know fanboys are fickle. My name is Andy."

"Boomer.  Pleased to meet you."

He swung his body to stretch out his curled, curved hand.  I took it and squeezed.  For some reason, I was surprised that it was warm.


By now his friend was staring at me suspiciously.  "This is my warden," Andy said in his slurred speech. "His job is to make sure I never have any fun."

"Roy -- Andy's Dad,"  he grunted.  "The one with the car."

Ok, I was being cruised by a guy who was thirty years younger than me, with spastic movements that kind of freaked me out, in a comic book store, in front of his father.

Time to seal the deal!

"Have you had lunch yet?  There's a pretty good Chinese place down the street that I like."

"We're going for pizza," Andy countered.  "You should come."

Roy grunted disapprovingly.  In retrospect, it must have seemed odd to watch his son pick up a strange guy twice his age.  Or did Andy do this all the time?

We had barbecue chicken pizza and garlic knots, while Andy's "spastic movements" kept rubbing his leg against mine.  I couldn't tell if Roy knew that his son was cruising me,  but it was obvious that he kept strict control over Andy's friends.  You had to prove yourself.

Turns out that Andy and I didn't have a lot in common.  He liked sports -- especially baseball -- and zombie movies and tv programs like The Walking Dead.

And he lacked most of the traits that I find attractive -- he was shorter than me, but slim, pale-skinned, and not religious.  I didn't get a chance to check on his beneath-the-belt gifts.

I was tempted to let the relationship slide,but then I thought of the Psychic Angel.  No way -- we were going forward, as far as Andy wanted!

Apparently I proved myself to Roy, as I got permission to solo with Andy the next day: a baseball game -- yawn -- then back to my apartment to kiss on the couch.

"I always liked older guys," Andy whispered, groping me with his curved hand.  "You're always so big!"

"It doesn't really get bigger as you get older."

"Ok, I guess I have Daddy issues, then."

"Well, your father is rather hot."

"Oh, I fantasize about him sometimes -- is that sick?  I want to tie him up and spank him.  You know, be the one in charge."

I could see where this was heading! "Sorry, I'm not really into that."  Andy probably couldn't tie ropes well, anyway.

"Ok, so...maybe I could like just tear your clothes off before we do it?  That would be erotic."

"Um...sure, I guess."

I put on an old t-shirt and jeans, and we went into the bedroom.  But old clothes are quite tough, apparently, and Andy's spastic hand movements couldn't get them to rip. I had to start the process with scissors.

The erotic activity that followed was a little disappointing.  Andy had a Bratwurst, very thick, with a foreskin that wouldn't retract -- but he was only into backside activity -- and a top.

I let him top me, but he worked so fast that I barely noticed.

Then I drove him home.

"This was fun," he said.  "Sometime you should meet my boyfriend.  He'd like you, too."

Boyfriend?  Wait -- I thought that Andy was a lonely shut-in who never got asked out, that I was doing him a favor by dating him.  "Is he an older guy?"

"Oh, no, he's in college.  All the college boys want to date me, but hardly ever anyone older.  But  older guys are fun -- they're always so grateful!   Well, bye!"

Wait -- was Andy doing me a favor?

See also Gay Psychic Angel; Cruised by my Mentally Disabled Neighbor

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Five Three-Ways with Kevin the Vampire

San Francisco, December 1996

Sex with Kevin the Vampire, my sort-of boyfriend in San Francisco, was exhausting.  No simple ten-minute blow job for him!  It was a long, complicated ordeal that took two hours minimum.

There was massage with weird oils.

There were ice cubes and strawberries.

His hands and mouth went everywhere, kissing and licking places that I didn't even know I had.  How did he manage to get his tongue inside my penis hole?

He would bring you close to orgasm, stop, start again, stop, start again, stop, over and over until you were begging for it.

Then, after your orgasm, he kept on going.  While you were still sensitive!

 In order to survive, I would have to find some way to dilute Kevin's sexual energy.

Tiring him out with a hard workout?  No.

Depressing him with tales of childhood homophobia?  No.

Keeping him up late?  No.

One morning over our breakfast coffee (Kevin didn't eat), I suggested bringing in a third person.

"I'm really rather monogamous," he said with a frown. "I prefer to devote my full attention to my man, as you know."

 Yes, but your full attention is exhausting!  "I like a bit of variety from time to time."

"Well, I'm perfectly agreeable to an open relationship.  You may certainly attend your Bear Parties, and go out with your friend David to cruise for Cute Young Things."

I took his hand.  "But I want the other guy to experience you in the bedroom.  Your hotness.  Your enthusiasm.  Your power."


He chuckled.  "Flattery has its uses.  By all means, then, bring on the barbarian hoards."


Three Way #1: Corbin the Gym Rat

Corbin and I worked out together and went to services at the MCC, the gay church.  He was about 10 years younger than me, tall, Mediterranean, very muscular, with a handsome face, big black eyes, aquiline nose, a prominent chin.  And a Mortadella+ beneath the belt.

After my birthday dinner in November, Kevin and I invited him home.

For four hours of hands and thighs and tongues, incense and oils, hot wax and feathers. Corbin was brought to the point of orgasm a dozen times until he was crying. Kevin allowed me to take his spurt, then turned me over on my back and told Corbin exactly how to use his mouth and tongue, what to stroke, what to lick.

It was almost dawn when I finished, and Kevin was still fully aroused!

Three Way #2: Lamar

Maybe Kevin was too attracted to Corbin to dispel his sexual energy.  Maybe if I found someone he wasn't attracted to at all?

He liked tall, broad-shouldered, muscular guys, He despised "short, fey twinks with earrings and squeaky little voices."

So I went to Twin Peaks in the Castro and picked up Lamar, a short, fey twink with a smooth, sallow chest, and long, skinny legs. We kissed and groped for awhile, and then I invited him home to meet Kevin.

I went down on him while he went down on Kevin, who finished almost immediately and then rolled over and fell asleep.

Rather disappointing -- I wanted to diminish the intensity of Kevin's passion, not extinguish it altogether.

Three Way #3: Orson

Ok, someone who was closer to Kevin's type, but not too close: a hairy muscle bear.  So I went to the Eagle and picked up a leather daddy named Orson -- about ten years older than me, balding, with a grizzly beard and a thick mat of white chest hair.

He turned out to be an anal top.  Neither of us were into anal, so Kevin and I took turns going down on him and fondling each other.

When he finished, Orson turned over onto his stomach and began to snore.  Kevin and I fell asleep soon, too.  No orgasms.

This was like the Three Bears story -- too hot, too cold.  I needed to find a guy who was "just right"






Three Way #4: Marius

Our fourth three-way was with one of Kevin's friends.  Actually his only close friend -- and boss at St. Mary's -- Marius, a beefy muscle bear in his 40s, with a heavy beard and a thick mat of chest hair.  He was from Argentina, but his parents were German.  He was somehow related to famous theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer..

This time Kevin was all over both of us, kissing and fondling, running his tongue over cocks and balls and nipples and armpits.  I went down on Marius twice, and Kevin three times, until my jaw ached.  He brought us near orgasm a dozen times before allowing us to spurt together.

Ok, what was the difference between Marius and Orson?  They were both hung muscle bears.

What did Kevin find attractive other than muscular physiques and gigantic sausages?

I couldn't ask him openly, of course, but I hinted around and got three characteristics:
1. Intelligence.
2. Innocence/naivete.
3, Religious devotion.

Suddenly it struck me:
Corbin and Marius: Muscle and religion (too hot)
Lamar: Neither (too cold)
Orson: Muscle only (too cold).

How about religion only?



Three Way #5: Wayne

Our fifth-three way was with Wayne, one of David's friends: a former Greek Orthodox priest who ran an interdenominational Orthodox fellowship in Berkeley.  He was in his 30s, handsome, cleanshaven, not muscular, with a pale chest, thin arms, and a Bratwurst beneath the belt.

Religion only.

Kevin was attentive to both of us, but not extravagant.  Kissing, oral, 69, interfemoral, no edging or weird oils.  One orgasm apiece.  Finished before dawn.

Now I just had to find a lot more skinny religious guys.

See also: Kevin the Vampire's Date with Satan.

Saturday, December 10, 2016

A Craiglist Hookup on the Plains

Plains, December 2016 (Thankfully)

It's been a terrible semester, the worst I can remember, with bereavement, job problems, financial problems, a pulled muscle that has kept me from running, worries over our new fascist president, and almost no social life at all.  No M4M Parties, no Gay Men's Group. Most of my friends have vanished or gone incognito, and I haven't made any new ones. Just a couple of dates with undergrads that didn't go anywhere (see A Hookup with the Nephew of my First Time and The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++).

Yesterday I turned in the final grades, and decided to celebrate by cruising.  But not on Grindr -- I have had enough of twinks calling me "Daddy."  I placed an ad on Craigslist.

Yep, the bottom of the barrel in cruising, where all sorts of crazies, sleazoids, and downlow guys hang out.

I submitted a chest pic and this ad.

Middle aged, athletic, work out daily, hairy chest, looking to host tonight at my apartment near downtown. Into kissing, cuddling, and oral, not into anal.  Any age/race, prefer bigger guys.  Send photo. 

Notice the not into anal?

Here are the responses, copied word for word, with their photos.

1. DJ (top photo).  

I might make it.  I am vers top, like rimming and sucking.

No way -- rimming is a complete turn-off!


2. Ted R.

You still looking?  8" here, bottom, really want a cock inside me tonight.

If you're a bottom, why are you telling me your cock size?  Besides, no way that's 8".  I give it a 5.









3. Pimpboy

Send me pics lol.

The name "Pimpboy" says it all.  I'm sure that photo is from the internet.














4. Jim

I saw your cl ad  and would be interested in joining you  I am a young 51 married discreet professional athletic masculine handsome 6'2" 200# 8.5 uc bottom and into hot sweaty man sex

What you need?  I am vers bottom.  You top or bottom?

On the downlow, and he said "bottom" three times in response to my "not into anal."  Not good at listening.

And look at the way he's sucking in that gut!  Didn't he notice that I like guys with guts?







5. Azi

Still looking ? 25 190 6.5 Asian here.  A threesome would be fun. Are you a top or a bottom?

I can come tonight we can have some beers what you say?  I'm horny as hell.

Way too over-eager, but he only mentioned "bottom" once.  I invited him over, but he never showed up.





6. Max

Saw your ad.  I'm 18, bi, never been with a guy before but want to try. I want a big one.  No car, so you have to pick me up.

No way I'm going to coddle some guy's first time.  Besides, he looks underage.  










7. Country Boy

Hi, I am 25, 5'7", 250, verst  ddf  not out  very discreet   like  oral  both ways rimming  and flip fucking.  Can't get pics on my email, wife checks.  Give me address and where to park.

That is not a 25 year old.  He's on the downlow, "discrete", and likes rimming.  No way.








8. Glen

Very hot hung musc ddf, not into fats or femmes, 420 friendly, bottom.

No 420 (marijuana), another bottom, but what the heck, whichever of the guys this is, he's got a physique.  So, after #5 chickened out, I invited him over.

He looked nothing like either of the two guys in the photo. He was not hot, hung, or musc.

But at least he was into oral.

Thursday, December 1, 2016

The Shy Guy at the Gym with the Supersized Penis


Plains, November 2016

At the YMCA the other night, when I was stripping down after my workout, the guy at the locker next to mine found an excuse to play around on his cell phone instead of taking off his gym trunks.  He was obviously going to wait until I was gone.

He was in his 20s, probably: his round baby face and short dark-brown hair made him look like a teenager.  Very tall, at least 6" taller than me, pale, with a smooth soft chest and a little belly.

"Poor thing," I thought.  "Being so tall will make his tiny meat look even smaller."

A rule of thumb for locker room cruising:

Guys with big ones walk to the showers with their towel in hand rather than around their waist, then stand around chatting nude at their lockers.

Guys with small ones hide behind a towel at all times, even putting on their underwear beneath it.  Sometimes they even refuse to take off their clothes until the bank of lockers around them is deserted.

I locked my locker, grabbed my towel (I never wrap it around my waist), and headed for the showers.  I was nearly finished when Baby Face finally arrived, and chose the stall across from me.  He carefully and deliberately faced the shower head, so none of the othe guys could see anything but his backside.

I soaped up a second time, hoping to get a glimpse of his penis, tiny or not.

A glimpse: my mouth dropped.  It was enormous!  Kovbasa+++ hanging halfway down to his knee, easily 7", ruddy, uncut.  Horse hung.

Come on -- you have to turn around sometime!  You have to shower your back!

But he didn't.

Eventually I had no more excuses to hang around, so I toweled off and returned to my locker and began to dress -- slowly.

Soon Baby Face re-appeared, hiding beneath a towel.   He turned his back to me to put on underwear, but I got another glimpse as he swung around.

I wasn't mistaken -- enormous.

He turned back to the locker without making eye contact.  I pretended to fool around with my gym pack.

He put on a sweatshirt that said Россия моя страна {Russia, my country).

An in!  My best friend is Russian!  I learned a little of the language.  

"Um...vy Russii?"  I began.

Baby Face looked up, surprised to be spoken to.

"Ya uznal russkiy yazk tri goda."  I studied Russian for three years.   That's a lie,  but I was thinking fast.


"Huh...oh, I don't speak Russian.  I got this shirt in Sioux Falls.  I'd like to learn someday, though."   He turned away again.

Think!  Pique his interest! "I can give you some basic conversation, like 'Where's the train station.'  Gde poyezd."

"Gde poyezd.  That's cool."  He picked up his gym bag.  To walk away forever!

"'Um...um...kiss and cake are the same word, potseluy, so you have to be careful when you go to a bakery."

He laughed.  "Or you might get a kiss!"

"I teach Russian history at the University."  Why was I lying so much?   Was I blinded by the glimpse of a Kovbasa?

Baby Face -- whose actual name was Justin -- had to rush off to meet his friends, but we exchanged phone numbers, and he agreed to come over the next night at 7:00 pm to "learn Russian."

I spent the day feverishly transforming myself into a Russian history professor.  I put out lot of souvenirs from Russia, years of birthday and Christmas presents from Yuri.  I dug up my few books on Russian history and literature, and bought a few more, at the used bookstore, so it would look like I had them for years.  I reviewed my Russian language lessons, especially slang and dirty words.



I want to eat your sausage:  ya khochu yest' vashu kolbasu
Let's go to the bedroom: mi idem v spal'nyu

7:00 came and went, and no Justin.  I texted him, but no answer.

At 7:30, he finally knocked on the door, ruddy, nervous.  "Um..sorry I'm late.  I almost didn't come."

We sat down on the coach -- Justin as far from me as he could get, looking down at his hands, nervous, miserable.

Ok, I would have to take this nice and slow, maybe not do anything at all. 

"Ok, Justin, first lesson. In Russian class they tell you that 'hello' is 'zdravstvutje', but my friend Yuri just says privet.  Repeat."

Justin refused to make eye contact. "Drastvutje."

"Look at me, so I can see if you're saying it right."

He looked up, but only for an instant.  "To be honest, I didn't come here to learn Russian.  It's cool and all, but...this was crazy.  Maybe I should go."

But he didn't move.

I scooted over to the other side of the couch and touched his shoulder.  He caught his breath.

"Why are you so nervous?  I'm not going to try anything."

Justin sighed deeply and continued to look down at his hands. "The thing is, I've seen you on Grindr.  I was too scared to say anything.  Then I saw you in the gym, and...well, it doesn't matter.  You just want to be my teacher.  I should go."



I leaned in close and kissed him.

Soon we were on the floor, where Justin went down on me while working on his super-size.  I flipped him over onto his stomach and pushed between his legs.  He moaned and spurted onto my stomach.

"Sorry," he said.  "It doesn't take me long."

"That's ok.  I'll get something to wash off with."

I wondered if Justin was the same super-sized guy I saw in the locker room on campus last year.  That guy tried to hide, too, but he had red hair, not brown.

"Have you dyed your hair recently?" I asked while carefully wiping him off.

He grinned.  "Yeah.  How did you know? I go red sometimes, or I get green and blue highlights."

What about Monster Cock from the urinal in the bathroom outside my office?

"I've seen you around the campus.  Are you taking Psychology 101 in ___ Hall this semester?"

"No, I'm not in college.  I graduated last spring."  He drew me down on top of him again as his Kovbasa++++ began to rise.  I could barely get my mouth around the head.

So there are still two mysteries:
1. Who is Monster Cock?
2. Why was Justin so intent on hiding his Kovbasa++++

See also: The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++; A Gigantic Sausage Sighting in the College Locker Room; and The Smiling Boy at the Gym

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Three Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Days of Cruising in Chicago

Chicago, November 2016

I'm in Chicago for a conference.  I've been here many times, but not recently, and never to the heart of downtown, across the street from the Art Institute.

Day 1

It's a rough neighborhood.  There are a dozen panhandlers at every corner, lots of homeless veterans saying "please help," men singing loudly and yelling at no one in particular, and no way to avoid them without hitting the thousands of other scurrying pedestrians.

And even though the streets are arranged on a grid, I can't find anything.  What should be around the corner is actually two blocks in the wrong direction.

There are no Asian restaurants in walking distance, if we consider "walking" "go outside, get lost, check GPS, get lost again, check GPS, literally trace your steps on the GPS while you are walking."

The hotel is just as bad, a maze of corridors and hallways, half-floors, rotundas, verandas, buildings inside buildings, with a map too small to read and contradictory information on directories.   It charges $240 a night for a "basic room," the size of a closet, looking out on a fire escape, with wifi $20 per day, then offers you a "business upgrade."


The Art Institute of Chicago is just as bad: mazes, multiple floors that don't connect to each other, galleries off to the side of other galleries.  I kept looking down at a sculpture garden, but couldn't figure out how to get to it.

Maybe I can assuage this very confusing day by going online and getting some cuddling and making out.

There are a dozen guys on Grindr in this very hotel.  But no one approaches me.

Back home, I go on Grindr and I'm inundated by twinks in 15 minutes.  Here I wait an hour.  Nothing, except one guy who wants me to pay him.

I even send out "hellos" to everyone within 1/2 mile.  One chubby cub wants to see my face pic, even though my profile has a face pic, and when I send it, he blocks me.

Rough town.


Day 2

A terrible morning: trying to find breakfast that isn't the $30 buffet offered by the hotel, then two very boring conference sessions, a network meeting that's all complaints about the conference, and finally, I have to be the discussant to a session full of papers on topics I know nothing about.

In the afternoon, I take the train to Boystown, Halsted and Clarke on the North Side.  It's nice to be in a gay neighborhood, with gay pride markers and rainbow flags, and half-naked men on billboards, even though most of the couples I pass are straight.

I go to the Steamworks, a bathhouse with a "glory hole row," places where you stand, and on a higher level there are openings for guys to insert their penises for blow jobs.

Years ago, I could go to Man's Country, which had a similar set up, and just walk down the line and pick who I wanted to go down on, and stay as long as I wanted.

Not this time.  Guys  take one look at me, and scram.  Or stand there naked a few inches behind the glory hole, waiting for someone better.

I manage to go down on a cute South Asian twink with very dark skin, but only for a second before he bolts.

And a black guy with a very thin penis, wearing a cock ring.  I dislike cock rings.

Otherwise I just stand there waiting, while guys walk up, look, and walk away.

I walk to the video room, where guys are masturbating, and sit down to watch.  They quickly get up and leave.

Back to the glory hole wall.  Three guys standing in the line, waiting.  But when I approach, they all leave.

At least I know how to clear a room.

I lay down on one of the mattresses to rest, and a cute, smooth-skinned Hispanic guy plops down next to me and just lies there with his arm over his face.  When I go down on him, he doesn't get aroused.

Must be drugged out.

Rough night.





Day 3

There is literally no session this morning with any paper on any topic I am interested in.  None.  I hang out in my room all morning.

Back to Boystown in the afternoon.

I go to a used bookstore with a surly proprietor who orders me to turn off my cell phone and asks what I want.

"Um...to browse?"

Is everyone in Chicago rude?

The glory hole wall at the Steamworks is no better than yesterday.  I manage to go down on a tall, well-hung Hispanic guy and a cute blond nerd, for a few minutes each.  Otherwise it's wandering and waiting.

Finally I give up.  I drop into a bar called the Town Hall Pub for a Diet Coke before getting back on the train to...shudder...my hotel.

It's mostly deserted.  Are we in some postmodern world where people don't choose bars, neighborhoods, or friends based on whether they're gay or straight?

A blond twink approaches me.  "Depressed over the election?" [Ten days ago, Donald Trump won the electoral vote and became President on a platform of white supremacy, bigotry, homophobia, and unbridled fascism].

"Well, yes, that," I say, "But I'm also depressed over the decline and fall of gay neighborhoods.  When I was growing up in western Illinois, Chicago was a haven of freedom from a homophobic world, where guys cared about each other.  We were all brothers. Now they won't even give you the time of day.  You should have seen me clear the room at the Steamworks."

"Are you sure you're remembering Chicago right?  Maybe you're being nostalgic -- as far as I've heard, guys in the baths have always been picky, waiting for Mr. Adonis to come down the hall."

"Yeah, maybe I'm just not competitive anymore.  I do fine in small towns, but in big cities, too old."

"You're not that old.  I'd guess...what, 60?"

"56, but thanks. I had no success on Grindr, either.  Dead silence.  And I'm no slouch -- I bench press 300 pounds."

He touches my shoulder.  "I can see that -- and feel it.  Let me ask you something.  Instead of looking for a hookup, did you ever think of asking a guy out?"

"I'm just in town tonight.  I can't really date."

"So you have time for dinner, right?"

The twink, actually a dialysis nurse named Dwayne, takes me to dinner at the Ann Sather Restaurant on Belmont, and then back to the his apartment, where we kiss and cuddle and listen to some weird kind of indie music before going into the bedroom.  He is slim, smooth, hairless, but very well hung, with a very thick cut Kielbasa.  The head is enormous.

I go down on him for a few minutes, but keep gagging, so he puts me on my stomach and rubs off against my butt crack without entering.

I can't spend the night, since I'm speaking at the conference at 8:00 am, so Dwayne takes me back to the train station.  We exchange emails.

Chicago is a rough town, but there are some bright spots.

See also: My First Bathhouse

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Is My Nephew Gay?

Indianapolis, September 2016

My sister and her husband moved to Indianapolis shortly after they married.  Terry worked as a car salesman, then ran a car detailing service, while Tammy worked as a secretary, office manager, and finally Assistant Director of Sports Information at a small Methodist college.

It soon became obvious that their son Joseph, born in 1990, had no interest in either cars or sports.  He liked acting, singing, dancing, and modeling.  When he was eight years old, he appeared in some local tv commercials.  When he was twelve, he starred in a community theater production of The Little Prince.

He was also interested was cooking.  He won a chili cookoff at age thirteen, baked homemade bread and pasta, and insisted that the family try every ethnic restaurant in Indianapolis, from Ethiopian to Indonesian.

He started taking Japanese in junior high and went on a study tour of China in high school.

As a teenager, Joseph was tall and slim, with curly blond hair and striking brown eyes, very handsome, and very fey, swishing and limp-wristed, with that nasal "gay accent" voice.  He wore bright pastel shirts and tight bulging jeans and plastic bracelets.

Definitely gay, I thought.

His parents didn't think so.


At age 12:  "He's got a girlfriend at school he hangs out with!"
At age 13:  "He joined the community theater to meet girls!"
At age 14:  "He'll be discovering girls soon, and then, watch out!"
At age 15:  "He's so handsome, all the girls will be lining up to date him."
At age 16:  "He's shy around girls, but he'll come around...."
At age 17:  "He's much too busy to date...."
At age 18:  "There are so many girls he likes, he can't settle on one, so he's going to the senior prom in a group of friends."

I tried my best to let Joseph know that it was ok to be gay, without actually saying that I thought he was:

I gave him a box of books, including several young adult novels on gay topics.

We had conversations about gay writers Yukio Mishima, Oscar Wilde, and Tennessee Williams.

I invited him to visit "me and Yuri" in Florida (he didn't come).

I invited him and "whatever friend you want" to see Angels in America (he came alone).

In 2008, Joseph enrolled at Indiana University, planning a dual major in East Asian Languages and theater.  He wanted to study the "Noh Theater" of Japan.


And he got a girlfriend!

Jan, a fellow theater major from a small town in southern Indiana.

In 2010, my boyfriend Troy and I drove to Indianapolis for Christmas, and met her at Christmas Eve Dinner.

Or at least we met the back of her head.  The rest of her was attached to Joseph.  Every moment they weren't eating or unwrapping a present, they were exploring each other's tonsils.

Her conversation was: "I'm planning [kiss] to concentrate  [kiss] in children's [kiss] theater [kiss]."

Tammy and Terry beamed.  I imagine they were feeling anxious about the possibility of Joseph being gay through his whole life, and now they were validated!  He was straight after all!

I was devastated.  I had spent the last ten years mentoring a gay kid...but he wasn't!

When they graduated in 2012, Joseph enrolled in the doctoral program in Central Asian Languages in Bloomington, and Jan got a job at the Children's Museum in Indianapolis.  They moved into an apartment together in Franklin, Indiana, about halfway between.

Straight -- but...

I found a profile on a gay dating app of a guy who looked like Joseph and was the right age.

Joseph belonged to a couple of gay groups on Facebook, including a Queer News Service.

Half of his Facebook friends were men.

In 2016, he borrowed his father's 1969 Chevy Camero to drive in the Indianapolis Gay Pride Parade (because 1969 was the year of the Stonewall Riots, the beginning of the modern Gay Rights Movement).

Straight ally?  Bisexual?  Genderqueer?

Last September, back in Indianapolis for a funeral, I determined to find out.

I couldn't ask, or -- God forbid -- cruise him, but I could use the age old "eye-widening" technique.



There were a lot of pictures on my phone from my trip to Mexico, including the standard sights, some random friends, and some swimsuit pictures of hot men.  I showed them to Joseph, checking to see which he spent time on and which he flipped through quickly.

He spent time on the hot men.

See also:Nephew Sausage Sighting #5;  We Teach My Nephew the Gay Facts of Life

















Friday, November 11, 2016

How We Survived the Homophobic World of the 1980s

A few days ago, we discovered that over 40% of the U.S. population believe that all Mexicans are rapists and all Muslims are terrorists, that African-Americans are inferior, that the handicapped should be ridiculed, and that sexual assault is ok.    It gives one pause, but it's not without precedent.

When I was living in West Hollywood in the 1980s and 1990s, most heterosexuals believed that gay people were pedophiles and violent criminals, that we were inferior and should be ridiculed, and that physically assaulting us was ok.

We heard incessant "fag! fruit! fairy!" jibes from family, friends, and classmates, while politicians, judges, teachers, preachers, and psychiatrists joined their voices together in an incessant shout of "You're crazy, evil, sinful, criminal!  You shouldn't exist!"

After surviving all that hatred, it was hard to imagine that heterosexuals were even human.  Surely they were soulless monsters who spent every waking moment plotting new ways to defame, humiliate, and kill us.

So we carved out our own Safe Space.

Our world, the only place where we could let our guard down and be free, was bounded by Sunset to the north, Melrose to the south, Doheny to the west, and Highland to the east. At each of those boundaries there was an invisible barrier separating us from the wilderness.

Of course, we had to travel outside our world sometimes, for jobs, to go to concerts and museums, to get to gay bars like Mugi.

But we were very careful: the woods were full of wolves.  We followed strict rules for survival.

1. Be inconspicuous: keep your voice low and your hands at your side.

2. Closet any signs of gayness: no rainbow flags, gay pride t-shirts, Advocate magazines.

3. Never speak to anyone you don't know, unless it is absolutely necessary.

4. Never take anything that a stranger tries to give you.  It will probably be a tract about how sinful you are.

5. Never go to a straight bar or restaurant.  It will be full of homophobes.

6. Avoid heterosexual books, newspapers, movies, and tv shows.  They will be full of homophobia.


What about the heterosexuals you must interact with daily, your classmates and coworkers:

1. Keep the conversation strictly professional.  Be polite but aloof.

2. Don't volunteer any personal information.  If asked, be vague and noncommittal.

"What did you do last weekend?""

"Oh, I just hung around.


3. When they ask about your girlfriend or interest in girls -- which they always do within a few seconds of "hello" -- lie.  Invent one.  Never come out to them, and never say you don't have a girlfriend, or they will try to fix you up with one.

4. When they say something homophobic -- which they always do shortly after asking about your girlfriend -- don't respond.  End the interaction and retreat.

5. What if you are accidentally outed?

If they start screaming, then obviously you should retreat.  If they merely ask insulting questions like "Which of you is the boy, and which is the girl?", use your own judgment about whether to respond.

6. Never accept invitations to parties, dinners, or other social events.  You will be fixed up with a girl or asked to discuss your interest in girls.

7. NEVER cruise them, regardless of how hot they are, or how friendly.  They will interpret your interest as a humiliating insult, and attack.

I have a story about the rules, but writing them all down took up too much space.  It will be up next: Picking Up the Best Man at My Sister's Wedding.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

I Shag Oscar the Irish Bodybuilder and His Twink Boyfriend

Philadelphia, November 6th, 2012

Election Night.  Following my tradition of Election Night Hookups, I went out to Woody's, an enormous twink bar with nonstop cruising.  There was a surprisingly large crowd, some watching the returns on a big-screen tv, but most ignoring them, believing that politics was a game for homophobic heterosexuals, not for us.

At 51, I was one of the older guys there, but I'm a twink magnet, so I was getting cruised by a number of Cute Young Things.

I was NOT being cruised by Oscar the Grouch, a short, very muscular guy, probably my age or a little older, with a round face, a stern military haircut, and a constant scowl.

Oscar was not being cruised by anyone, in spite of his physique.  Maybe his age and scowl were turn-offs.  He stood by himself at a little counter, beer bottle at his side, grimacing at everyone.

I never do well with older guys, but I thought, he's got an amazing physique,why not give him a try?

I sidled up and introduced myself.   The first thing he said was:  "Aren't twinks the worst?"

"Um...beg pardon?"

"Frilly little wankers, so soft and sassy, wouldn't know what to do with a real man if he bit them on the arse."

Well, this was a twink bar....what did he expect? "I'm from West Hollywood..."  I began.

Before I could finish my sentence, he continued, "Why is America full of stooks?"

"Um...beg pardon?" I said, trying to place his accent.

"Idjits.  You get into a big row over gay marriage, when civil unions do the same job.  What's the difference?"

Um...


"And your tv is bollocks!  The other night I was watching Parks and Recreation.  'Oh, you have to watch,' my friend said.  It's cor deadly, right?'  Infantile drivel, more like."

Ok, he was annoyingly downbeat, but I was entranced by his enormous pecs and huge round biceps -- and by his the accent, which I finally placed as Irish.

Oscar (not his real name) grew up a fell jackeen in Kilkenny, Ireland, a small town known for its Medieval castle and abbeys, and the nursery rhyme about the Kilkenny cats:  there were two of them, but "each thought they were one cat too many," so they fought, and now there's none at all.

"We're fighters in Kilkenny," Oscar told me.  "Always ready to get our hop on.  Not like you American ponces."  He grinned.

I reached out and felt his chest, and moved my hand down to his crotch.  Thick mass, semi-aroused.  Talking of fighting turned him on!

After getting his degree at Trinity College, he moved inside the Pale, downtown Dublin, the biggest, best gay neighborhood in the world.  West Hollywood  is all tacky and tawdry, full of dosser twinks with nothing to do but file their nails and tool, but in the Pale, there's a big leather bar, the Boiler Room, a stone's throw from Parliament, and the George is just down the street from Triners!  You can see the Book of Kells and ride a bloke on the same afternoon!

I was starting to bristle.  I defend West Hollywood as if it were my home town -- which, in many respects, it was.  But I kept my eye on the prize, a hookup with an older guy, and a bodybuilder to boot.

"There are museums in Los Angeles, too.  The L.A. County Museum of Art, the Getty...and....and Pacific Design Center..."

"Please, those blue and green building blocks?"

"So...what made you leave the gay paradise of Dublin for our tawdry, twink-infested U.S.?" I asked.

"Me fella had a job here. If we ride it tonite, we'll be sharing with him.  Doug. You'll like him -- all the Yank brills think he's savage hot."

Two older guys, and probably bodybuilders with Irish accents? I'm there!

"I hate America though.  I keep telling Dougie boy we should leg it back to Dublin, or at least move to Canada, where people are a little more civilized, right?"

Insulting my country on Election night?  I was about to give him shade and leg it out of there, two bodybuilders or not, but then Oscar put his arm around me and squeezed hard, and leaned in for a boozy kiss.  I felt his huge hand on my back, his hard bicep, his aroused Kielbasa pushing against me.

"Well, I'm locked and fell langered.  Why don't we pop off to me gaff?"

I assumed that meant go home with him.

Oscar took me by the hand and led me toward the door.  " At least you're a real man, not one of these barmy goslings with piercings everywhere and too-tight jeans.

"Yeah, I get swarmed by twinks all the time, too.  It will be nice to hang out with a couple of guys my own age for a change."


 We left the bar around 11:00 pm, took the metro to the 52nd Street SEPTA station and walked three blocks to an upstairs apartment on Peach Street: small, cluttered living room, kitchenette, dining room, two bedrooms.  Doug, the partner, was already asleep, snoring softly under the covers in the darkness of the master bedroom.

"Go ahead and jump in bed," Oscar said.  "Snog, if you like, for a bit of a larf."

Worried that I was about to be the butt of a practical joke, I gingerly took off my shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to the snoring mass of Doug.  I reached over and felt for a hairy, chubby bear -- and got a slim, smooth chest, skinny arms, and an average sized penis that hardened under my touch.

A twink!

"Did you bring me a present?" Doug murmured.

American accent!

So Oscar the Grouch hated twinks and Americans, but his partner was an American twink?


Well, a penis is a penis.

After we kissed -- snogged -- and fondled, Doug went down on me while I was kissing Oscar, and then we double-teamed Oscar's very thick uncut Kielbasa until he finished.  I finished between Doug's legs while fondling Oscar.

At least I got to shag one older guy that night.

See also: The Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy








Sunday, November 6, 2016

10 Election Night Hookups

Rock Island is staunchly Democrat, and my parents were the most staunchly Democrat of all.  I spent my childhood going to election rallies and passing out bumper stickers, and falling asleep on election night listening to the returns on tv in the next room.

But when I grew up, my political interests ended altogether.  Politicians seemed to be competing to see who could express the most homophobic hatred.  Why bother to support candidates where the choices were "I promise to keep your children safe from homo recruitment!" and "I promise to keep homos from shoving their sick lifestyles down your throats!"?

I still voted in most presidential elections, if I could figure out which candidate hated us the least.  And, to assuage my feeling of persecution and victimization, I started a tradition of Election Night Hookups.



1. Professor Burton.  November 4, 1980.  The first time I was able to vote: my junior year at Augustana College.  After voting, I had dinner with Professor Burton, a husky bear in his 40s who taught geology.  I went down on him in the living room, while he was watching election returns.

Results: "Gay menace" Ronald Reagan enjoyed a landslide victory over the only mildly homophobic Jimmy Carter and John Anderson.

2. Dan the Chain Smoker.  November 6, 1984.  During my horrible, depressing year in Hell-fer-Sartain, Texas.  After voting I hooked up with a guy named Dan: in his 30s, short, slim, bearded, smoked constantly.  I had an ash tray in my apartment, but instead he used a damp napkin on a saucer.  Nice sized Bratwurst, though.

Results: "Gay menace" Ronald Reagan got 58% of the popular vote over Walter Mondale, who, when  asked to say something about gay people at a campaign stop, angrily walked off stage.





3. Turning Japanese.  November 8, 1988.  Depressed over my doctoral dissertation, broke, lacking a boyfriend, I paid no attention to the presidential race, and didn't vote.  I went to Mugi, the gay Asian bar.  A Romanian twink named Stash approached and asked where in Asia I was from.  I don't know why -- I don't look at all Asian.  For some reason I told him "Japan" and had to go with that through our entire first date.

Results:  George Bush, Reagan's vice president of homophobia, beat out Michael Dukakis, who hated gay people and was a fierce opponent of gay adoption.

4. Alan's Ex.  November 3rd, 1992.  After we voted, Lane and I went to an Election Night Party held by the Stonewall Democrats, and ended up going home with Alan's ex-boyfriend, who, like Alan, was an ex-porn star.

Results:  Bill Clinton, the first candidate to mention gay rights (he promised to end the military ban on gay people), got 72% of the gay vote and 43% of the heterosexual vote, beating out George Bush.




5. The City Councilman. November 5th, 1996.  David and I went to another Election Night Party.  I didn't actually get a hookup, but I got a date with Tom Ammiano, who was on the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

6. I Break Every Rule of Gay Cruising: November 7th, 2000.  In New York, I lived within easy walking distance of about 20 gay bars, but I rarely went cruising.  But on the night of November 7th, I was depressed, so I went to the Eagle, broke every rule of gay cruising, and ended up somewhere in New Jersey with Jorge, and having to sneak out of his parents' house in the morning with no idea how to get home again.

Results:  George W. Bush, who hated us even more than his Dad, or  Al Gore, who just thought we were second class citizens?   Gore won the popular vote, but Bush got the electoral vote.






7. November 2nd, 2004.  I was living in Florida with Barney and Yuri.  No hookup.

Results: George W. Bush beat out John Kerry for another term with 50.7% of the popular votes.  I was so worried about round-ups and concentration camps that started applying for jobs outside the U.S., planning an escape.

8. The Bathhouse Bonanza. November 4th, 2008.  I was living in Upstate New York.  On the night of November 4th, I drove down to Albany and went to the River Club, a small bathhouse.  I usually didn't have much luck there, but tonight for some reason I was absurdly popular, accepted by everyone I approached.

Results: Barack Obama and John McCain were both against gay marriage, but Obama vowed to support gay rights, and McCain said there was no anti-gay discrimination in the U.S.  Obama got 53% of popular votes.



9. Oscar the Grouch. November 6th, 2012. During my horrible, terrible year in Philadelphia, I went out cruising on Election Night, and hooked up with Oscar the Grouch: a short, very muscular guy from Ireland who complained incessantly about everything American.  Kielbasa beneath the belt, though.

Results: Barack Obama, who had now changed his mind and favored gay marriage, got 51% of the popular votes, beating Mitt Romney, who was still against it.











10. November 8th, 2016: Plains.  Hillary Clinton, who has repeatedly affirmed her commitment to gay rights, or Donald Trump, who thinks it's pretty weird to "choose" to become gay and wants to dump gay marriage?

I invited Monster Cock, aka Brandon, over for a homemade vegetarian pizza and election returns.  This will was first time voting.

Coincidentally, he might become a geologist, like Dr. Burton, my first Election Day Hookup.

Results: We sat there open-mouthed, speechless as the Der Fuhrer stormed through all of the swing states.  Then I was too upset to do anything in bed.  He still wanted to.  Not the best second date!

See also: The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++

Friday, November 4, 2016

The Boy at the Urinal with the Kovbasa++++

Plains, November 2016

The restroom around the corner from my office is very small: two sinks, two urinals, then on the other side of a wall, another urinal and a stall.  Most guys choose the nearer urinals, but I always go to the back one, because there is more privacy.

So I assume if there's no one at the front urinals, the restroom is empty.

But one morning a couple of days after returning from Iceland, I rushed in, having to go badly, and as I rushed past the wall to the far urinal, I came face to face with the biggest penis I have ever seen.

Gigantic!  A Monster! Easily six inches soft, thick around, with a huge head.  

I was so surprised that I backed off immediately, without even seeing who it belonged to, except for a vague image: slim, medium height, dark shirt, light colored backpack.

I rushed to one of the front urinals, unzipped, and started urinating, planning to turn around when I was finished and see Monster Cock as he washed his hands.    I had to know who belonged to such an enormous Kovbasa++++++. What did he look like?  Who did he hang out with?  Was he gay or straight, or his own thing, Priapus, the God of the Penis?

But...Monster Cock bypassed the sink and walked right out the door before I had a chance to look over!

I struggled to finish and zip up, and rushed out of the restroom after him.  Five seconds had passed -- he couldn't have gotten far.

No one walking away to the left.  No one but a girl to the right.  No offices for him to duck into.  Where could he have gone?

There's a lecture hall door next to the restroom.  It leads to a stage that the faculty use, so students don't usually go in that way.  But...maybe Monster Cock did? Maybe he was a professor?

I ducked in and looked.  A class was about to start.  The professor, a woman, was turning on a Powerpoint slideshow.

He wouldn't have gone through the stage door to get to a back row -- he must be in the front.

Everyone in the first three rows was already sitting down except for one guy, still taking his laptop out of his backpack.  Not slim, actually tall and a little chunky, with a round face, dark button-down shirt, jeans.  Not especially striking, but....he must be Monster Cock!

The professor stared at me quizzically.  I had to duck out.

A check of the class schedule: It was Introduction to Psychology, a 100-level course with 120 students enrolled.  I'd never find him in the huge online course roster.  Would I?

I did!  I got his name: Brandon M___.

Next I looked on Facebook -- he was there, a friend of Todd, the nephew of my First Time, who I hooked up with last month.

Otherwise his profile was not promising.  First year student from a small town about 20 miles away.  Nondescript  interests, nondescript photos of him and his mom, dad, and brothers.  Fishing, standing in front of a car, winning some kind of prize in grade school, going to something called a Geode Fest in Nauvoo, Illinois.

Only one shirtless pic: him and a friend with girls on either side of them (he's the one on the left, not the cute one).  Must be straight.

But -- what the heck, I had already done a lot of research.  It wouldn't hurt to send Monster Cock a friend request.

To my surprise, he responded within an hour:  "Hi!  I've seen you around campus.  How do you know Todd?"

We discussed Todd briefly -- they weren't actually friends -- then my classes and Monster Cock's major.  He had declared nursing, but he might switch to psychology, or maybe geology.

"My friend Yuri is a geologist!" I told him. (Ok, atmospheric scientist, close.)  "I just got back from Iceland, where we went on a geologic expedition together." (Ok, we looked at the aurora borealis, close.)

"Wow, did you find any Heulandite?  It's very rare, mostly found in eastern Iceland, but I bought a specimen at the Dakota Rock Shop in the Black Hills."

 Maybe I should fix him up with Yuri.  "No, no Heulandit, but I'd love to take a look at your sample."

Your sample!  Nudge nudge, wink wink.

The next night we met at the gay-friendly coffee house to discuss Heulandite and Icelandic geology.  The conversation wasn't terribly interesting, but I was determined to see Monster Cock naked, and I have thirty years of experience in some of the biggest cruising capitals of the world.

I gave him my best stuff, teasing and withdrawing, accidentally showing him shirtless photos amid the photos of Iceland on my phone, posing my knee so he was sure to accidentally brush against it, throwing just the right amount of flattery, hiding tantalizing hints amid the mundane details of a sentence, flashing a sultry gaze so briefly that he thought he was imagining it.

The poor kid didn't have a chance.  He kept getting aroused, hiding it, softening, then getting aroused again.  By the time we finished our Ethiopian coffees and blueberry scones, he was all but begging me to take him up the hill to see my Gay Pride Geode, and whatever else I wanted to show him.

The moment we got into the apartment, Monster Cock grabbed and kissed me, tore off my sweater and felt down my pants.  I began groping his...

Um....

His small penis...

I didn't have time to think about it.  In an instant, we were in the bedroom, and Monster Cock was on top of me, kissing, licking, and  fondling everything he could reach, then going down on me with lighting-fast strokes.

I turned him over onto his back and entered between his legs while we were kissing.  The pressure of my penis against him made him finish almost immediately.  Then I mounted his mouth.  He gagged a little, but managed to take it all.

When I finished, we collapsed onto the bed.

"Whoa, that was intense!" Monster Cock exclaimed.

We both covered with sweat and other fluids.  I got a wet washcloth to wipe off with, and finally managed to get a good fondle of his penis.

Average size at best.


"Ready for more?" Brandon M___ asked.

"I'm always ready for more."  I scooted between his legs and went down on him.  He started to harden immediately.

Ok, he wasn't the Monster Cock from the urinal, but what's the difference?

A penis is a penis, no matter how small.

See also: A Hookup with the Nephew of My First Time










L

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