My boyfriend Lane and I have an open relationship: bedroom activity with other guys is fine, as long as we are both present, "sharing" or at least watching. In emergencies, like when I'm back in Rock Island for two weeks, a close friend can substitute.
So on Christmas Day, I call Lane and tell him how my friend Dick and I went to JR's last night and hooked up with the Ginger Boy. And he tells me about how he went to a bear contest at the Faultline, and got the phone number of the winner, Randall.
"You should have seen him! A classic muscle daddy, in his 50s but not grey, a military haircut, a short-cropped beard, thick arms, nice muscular hairy chest! I groped him -- feels like a gigantic Kielbasa down there!"
"Sounds hot," I say. Not really my type though. I just turned 30, so I'm not into the over-40 crowd. I figure if they date, I'll just be the "watcher."
"And really into S&M: mummification, water sports, you name it."
I like some minor bondage, but Lane isn't into it at all. What does he see in this guy? "So, when is the big date? You can bring Max along to share, if I'm still in the Midwest."
"No, we'll wait until you get back. How about if we have dinner with him on the 5th?"
West Hollywood, January 5th, 6:00 pm
I expect Lane to drive me to a West Hollywood address -- San Vicente, Crescent Heights, Fairfax, La Brea. But instead we get on the 410 and drive south for 45 minutes, to Long Beach!
The other side of the world? What does this guy have that the 20,000 gay men in West Hollywood don't?
Long Beach, 7:00 pm
We meet Randall at a restaurant on East Broadway, in the heart of Long Beach's gay neighborhood. He is very attractive, very dynamic, in spite of being 23 years older than me. Maybe I'll do more than watch.
I start bringing out my best stories. I spent a summer in Japan.
"Really? I lived in Japan for five years, after I got out of the navy. Nihonjin dansei ga miri kitekidesu!"
How about my celebrity boyfriend?
"Oh, I met him at a party a few years ago, when he was still in that tv show. He let me tie him up, but I couldn't do anything else. You know who's really into S&M scenes? I'll give you a hint -- he's on Murphy Brown!"
Ok, my writing career. "I worked for Muscle and Fitness for four years," I tell him, omitting the fact that I was a proofreader. "But now I've moved into freelance. I just had an article published in Frontiers [the local gay newspaper]."
"That's great. I write a monthly column on the leather world. You've probably seen it -- Randall's Ropes?"
After cruising at the Mineshaft, a local leather bar, we go back to Randall's house, a square Spanish colonial flanked by palm trees. Not much furniture: a nearly bare living room, a playroom with a pool table and a fireplace, a study with some paperbacks leftover from his college days. But a well-stocked basement dungeon.
"Who's up for a scene?" Randall asks. "Boomer, you look like a bottom."
"Nope, a top. Lane bottoms on occasion, but he's not really into it at all."
"Come on, Boomer -- you can't say no to two tops. At least let us put you in my new leather-braided restraints and play with you a bit."
So I take off my clothes, and Randall wraps my wrists and biceps in tight leather bands. He fondles my chest, and Lane goes down on me.
But I'm not used to restraints, and it's very, very tight. "Enough, enough!" I exclaim.
"But I was going to put clamps on your nipples!"
"Let me out of this thing!"
He unties the braids. "Would you be up for a midnight swim instead? In my pool, not in the ocean, so there will be no fish to nipple on your toes"
Randall strips, revealing a nice muscular chest and a gigantic Kielbasa -- with a Prince Albert, what looks like a 3" thick metal hook through his glans.
Lane and I follow him upstairs and into the back yard. It's January in Long Beach, 53 degrees out, jacket weather. I assume that his pool is heated.
Randall and Lane dive into the deep end. I climb carefully into the shallow end and stand there, shivering.
Randall swims over and gropes me. "Hey, Boomer, have you ever gone down on a guy underwater?"
Put my head under that ice shelf? I don't think so.
I climb of the pool and go back in the house. Randall follows.
"Sorry, you're from the Midwest, so I figured you wouldn't mind a little chill. Let me warm you up." He slaps my back -- vigorously. It hurts!
"Ouch! Get away!"
"Sorry! Well, let's get busy." He grabs Lane, pushes him down on the couch, and starts aggressively kissing and fondling him. His gigantic Kielbasa becomes aroused. Who am I to turn down a Kielbasa? I kneel and go down on him.
It feels like I'm going down on one of those old-fashioned hitching posts.
"Could you take that thing out?" I ask. "It's breaking my teeth."
"Well, I prefer leaving it in. Oral sex is much better that way. Try this -- it will help you relax your throat."
He shoves a poppers vial at me. I refuse.
Tired of getting my teeth knocked out, I move over and go down on Lane.
"Shall we go to the bedroom?" Randall asks. He doesn't wait for an answer -- his fully aroused hitching post leads the way.
He sits on the bed, his back against the headboard, and Lane crawls between his legs and goes down on him. I sit next to him. We kiss for awhile. Then he opens a carved wooden box and pulls out a homemade cigar. "Want to get high?"
I don't drink. What makes him think I do drugs? I've never even seen marijuana before. "Um...no, thanks."
"How about you, Lane?"
Lane looks up. "Thanks, but I'm high enough as it is. It's not every day that I get to go down on someone as big as you."
"Hey, he's not that much bigger than me!" I exclaim.
"Just keep working, boy," Randall says, patting his head. He lights up. An acrid-sweet smell fills the room.
"Um...I'm not into anal."
"Just relax, boy." He spits on his penis and pushes it between my legs, while I'm facing the wrong way. After a few dozen thrusts, he finishes with a yell.
All in all, a less than optimal evening.
But Lane loved it. Randall was like a bigger, more accomplished, more adventurous version of me. We visited him in Long Beach, or invite him up to West Hollywood, every couple of weeks until we moved to San Francisco in 1995. And after we broke up, Lane and Randall became roommates.
Today Randall is 78 years old, still living in that house in Long Beach, still inviting Cute Young Things over to swim in his pool, try out his dungeon, and break their teeth on his Prince Albert.
See also: A Golden Boy for Christmas; Darren, Cary Grant, and Groucho Marx in the Same Bed.