The Great Redneck Roundup of 1995 yielded 20 hookups in 20 days, but, surprisingly, few actual
"rednecks."
We were looking for country boys:
1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly
2. "Macho" jobs as truckers or factory workers.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms
4. Drove pick-up trucks
5. Listened to country-western music
6. Most important: were very, very, very well hung.
Instead, we met a slim smooth Hispanic guy who wanted to be a chef, and a South Asian medical technician who took us to the ballet.
Nice, but we could meet guys like that back in West Hollywood. Where were the cowboys, truckers, and farmboys of the Straight World?
On Day 7, we drove 10 hours from Denver to Omaha.
"We're bound to pick up a country boy here," I said.
When I moved to Omaha with Fred during college, I had never been so far west before, or lived in my own apartment, so it seemed a great adventure, like a pioneer in a wild, untamed frontier. Even the sky seemed a darker shade of blue.
The Mutual of Omaha insurance building, with its Indian in a headdress that glowed at night, was visible everywhere downtown.
After we checked into our hotel and worked out, I went cruising alone (we usually cruised together, but I was worried that the elusive country boy would be intimidated by two sophisticated California guys together).
Of the three gay bars listed in my Gayellow Pages, the Omaha Mining Company seemed like the best place.
It was a small, rather seedy gay bar in an old building with parquet ceilings. There were barrels of peanuts you could shell and eat while waiting for your watered-down drinks. Two tv sets showing a football game.
Perfect!
Wait -- August wasn't football season. Even I knew that.
I sat down at the bar next to an obvious redneck: about my age, formerly muscular but now a little chunky, with a round bearded face. He was wearing a red shirt unbuttoned so you could see his smooth, cologne-doused chest, very tight jeans with a prominent bulge no doubt augmented by a few socks, and a baseball cap.
He was drinking a Coors beer and every now and then yelling "Yeah!" as he paid close attention to the game.
"What's going on?" I asked. "It's not football season."
"Son, it's always football season!" he exclaimed. "This is a preseason game, Pittsburgh at Buffalo."
I knew fans always favored the nearest city, but both of those were pretty far from Omaha. "Which one do you like?"
"Pittsburgh, definitely! You?"
"Oh..um...Pittsburgh, of course."
Suddenly someone scored a point or something. The guy yelled "Awright!" and raised his hand for a high-five. I complied.
"That was a Pittsburgh point. You're not a big football fan, are you?"
"Not really."
"No shame in that. I'm Kevin." We shook hands -- very big hand, very rough. Instead of letting go, he guided my hand down onto his crotch.
Wow, country boys worked fast! "Um...I'm Boomer. Visiting town from West Hollywood."
"You're kidding!" He punched my shoulder. "Man, I would love to go there. Gay central! Hey, can guys go down on each other right on the street, like in the pornos?"
"It's not really like that. More of a small town, just almost all gay."
Between guzzles of Coors, yells of "Awright!",and rubbing my hand against his crotch, , Kevin asked dozens of questions about West Hollywood: coming from California was as attractive to country boys as gigantic penises were back home. I told him about Alan the Pentecostal Porn Star, my celebrity boyfriend, and meeting Lou Ferrigno when I worked at Muscle and Fitness.
Kevin came from a small town in Kansas ("I've heard all of the Dorothy and Toto jokes"). In college he played for the Nebraska Cornhusker football team as "defense" ("because I'm big -- son, you don't know how big"). Now he worked as a recruiter, traveling to high schools all over the country to get kids interested in the University of Nebraska.
"It so happens that you get a perfect view of the Mutual Indian from my bedroom window," he said expectantly.
What kind of a dumpy apartment would a country boy have? "Well -- I'm visiting with my partner. He's back at the hotel. Why don't we go there?"
"Hotels! You're in hotels every night! Time you boys spent the night in a real bed!"
I couldn't tell him that in our six days on the road so far, we had only spent three in a hotel room.
His apartment was nicely furnished, with a leather couch, black stalk lamps, a brightly-colored print of a nude man from the backside.
We didn't have much time to check out the views. Almost the moment we got in the door, Kevin was on his knees, unzipping me. He worked on both of us for awhile, then tore off our clothes and pulled us into the bedroom.
Very nice physique, smooth hard chest, a little belly, long, thick Kielbasa, cut.
"So, which of you is the top?" Kevin asked. "Lane, right? The condoms are in that drawer over there. The second drawer, next to the lube.
Lane laughed, no doubt remembering Barcelona last year, when Ramon mistook me for a bottom.
Kevin frowned and lay flat on the bed on his stomach. "So Boomer, you're the top? I'm up for you. You'd be surprised what I can take!"
"We're actually not into Greek," I said. "No one in West Hollywood is. Too many bad memories."
"Oh...right...I hear you. He rolled over to his side. "You lost a lot of friends to AIDS, back in the day. Well, come here, and let's cuddle. I haven't had two guys in my bed in a long time."
We lay on the bed on either side of him and kissed and cuddled, and took turns going down on him. Then I climbed on top of him and thrust between his legs.
"I never did it this way before," he whispered.
"West Hollywood boys know lots of tricks."
In the morning he took us to breakfast at Lisa's Radial Cafe, and then we checked out of our hotel and drove on to Des Moines.
Let's review:
1. Heavy-set, not fat but thick around the belly. Check2. "Macho" jobs as a trucker or factory worker. No -- college recruiter, middle class.
3. Lived in small towns or on farms. No -- Omaha, population 400,000
4. Drove pick-up truck. No.
5. Listened to country-western music. Check. We didn't listen to music, but I definitely saw some cowboy hats on the CDs piled up on his entertainment center.
6. Well hung. Check
Three out of six isn't a great score, but Kevin had the most important Country Boy trait: enormous beneath the belt. Plus very enthusiastic.
And before the Roundup was over, I met a trucker and an honest-to-goodness cowboy.
See also: The Great Redneck Roundup; Fred and the Teenager Downstairs
We exchanged phone numbers with Kevin but didn't stay in contact.
ReplyDeleteToday you would never invite someone home without introducing him to your friends, or at least recording his contact information, but in 1995 Kevin didn't seem to think of it. Maybe because he was much bigger than me, at least 6'5".
ReplyDeleteThanks, man! Great memory! Take care and stay bare!
ReplyDeleteI thought rednecks also had to be from the South. And a hillbilly is from Appalachia. You were bicoastal long enough to not know the difference. LOL
ReplyDeleteI mean, the shadow of the Mutual of Omaha building may be a wild kingdom, but still, not the South.
What's interesting is this is the 90s.
Rednecks can be from anywhere, as long as you're a white guy who works outside in the sun (so your neck gets sunburnt). You have to say "Southern redneck" if you want to specify from the South.
DeleteThat's rubes or hicks.
DeleteWhite trash, by the way, are whites who oppose racist systems out of their own self-interest, the term grew out of slavery, hence why I so stridently object to referring to the Orange Devil as such.
That talk about apartments, now I'm thinking of a white friend growing up. His sister was the first girl I'd slept with. (Be aware, I had many circle jerks and sword fights with my guy friends growing up.) They lived in a trailer park in the middle of nowhere. There was a rowhouse nearby.
ReplyDeleteMy Cousin Buster grew up in a trailer in the woods, about half a mile from my Grandpa Prater's farmhouse, with nothing else nearby. I thought it was the coolest place in the world.
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