The Rich Kid and the Muscle Bear: Dumped by Richie Rich

Louisville, Kentucky, April 1984

I was at Indiana University to get my M.A. in English, but on a campus that offered Elementary Lithuanian, Sufi Poets, Mongolian Civilization, and Serbo-Croatian Epics, who could stand still for dull William Wordsworth?

In the fall of 1983, I enrolled in Tibetan Culture (for both graduate and undergraduate students), and one of my classmates was Richie Rich.

Not his real name, of course: In Harvey comics, Richie Rich was a blond in a Lord Fauntleroy costume whose infinite wealth caused an infinite number of problems.

This Richie Rich was a slim, tanned blond who was majoring in Central Asian Studies, mostly to annoy his Dad, a state senator who played golf with President Reagan. and consistently voted anti-abortion, anti-Russia, and anti-gay.

Richie was vehemently opposed to his father's politics, but he didn't mind the infinite wealth.  He spent every summer at the beach house on Cape Cod.  He drove a new Jaguar.  He spend hundreds of dollars on bohemian-chic fashions.  He always looked like he was trying out for a road tour of Fame.

He had just discovered Bullwinkle's, where he chatted up guys but rarely hooked up; no one ever saw him taking anyone home.

Richie wasn't really my type: he was tall, thin, and blond, and even in 1983 I preferred short, dark, and muscular.

But he was interested in religion, and he was...well, rich, two points in his favor.

I wouldn't mind discussing Buddhism, Hinduism, and Zoroastrianism while tooling around in Richie's Jaguar, or spending the week in his summer house on Cape Cod.

So I cruised Richie Rich at Bullwinkle's.  He was attentive, even flirtatious, allowing me to grope him and fondle his chest.  But before I could go any farther, he said "Well, see you in class," and vanished.

I invited him to my Halloween party in October, but he didn't come.

He was a Unitarian, so one Sunday in November, I visited his church -- no Richie Rich.

The next day in class, I said "I went to your church yesterday."

His eyes widened.  "What for?"

I took Russian Folklore instead of Tibetan in the spring 1984 semester, but, having just broken up with Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches, I was even more eager to land a new boyfriend, preferably Richie Rich.

But what would attract his attention?

He was interested in religion.   How about the Metropolitan Community Church?

A church founded by and for gay people!  Richie wanted to see that!

The nearest MCC was in Louisville, Kentucky, about two hours south of Bloomington.  Roy the Farmboy and I visited last year, and I spent the night with the preacher, Brother Reid: a tall, bearded bear in his 40s.

Brother Reid was into Cute Young Things, and would certainly cruise Richie.  To avoid the competition, I rented us a hotel room for Saturday night.

We would drive up on Saturday, have dinner, go to the bars, spend the night, then get up on Sunday, go to church, and head for home.

Foolproof, right?  I would certainly have Richie Rich in my bed, where my superlative physique and expert sexual technique would win him as my boyfriend!

The trip down to Louisville went great, except that Richie insisted that we take my car -- he didn't want his Jaguar to get dirty.   We talked, laughed, discussed Buddhism, flirted with a local boy at a rural gas station.

We checked into the very elegant, very expensive Brown Hotel downtown -- fortunately, Richie paid. I put my arm around him the moment we set down our suitcases, but Richie said "Come on, let's go on a tour of the town, and find someplace to eat."

We had dinner at a Mexican place, and then went to the Discovery, a gay disco.

Mostly gay men, a scattering of lesbians and what looked like one heterosexual couple.

We hit the dance floor, and I tried to hug Richie again, but he moved away from me.

After awhile, I saw him dancing with an older guy, Brother Reid's age, a husky muscle bear with a black beard and a thick mat of chest hair, damp from dancing.

They had no problem hugging -- and kissing!

I went to the bar, bought a coke, and pulled Richie from the clench.   "Here's your drink."

"Thanks," he said, taking it from me while gazing into the eyes of the bear.

"Hi, my name is Boomer.  You guys are really hitting it off."

"Pleased to meet you," the bear said without looking at me.  They went back to kissing.

Hey, Richie is my date!

Jealous, outraged, I rushed to the nearest guy, a balding but buffed sleazoid in his 30s, and started cruising him.  After a moment, I looked over to see if it was having an effect.

Richie and the Bear were both gone!

I waited for an hour.  There were no cell phones in those days, so I couldn't call.

There was nothing to do but invite the sleazoid back to my hotel room and expend all my frustration on energetic, uninhibited oral and even some Greek.  Then I kicked him out.

Richie appeared in the morning, just as I was getting ready to call the police, all blustery and happy about the guy he tricked with last night.

I was furious.  You don't just dump guys at a bar.  Especially your date!

Ever since then, I have had an unbreakable rule: when you go out with someone, friend, boyfriend, hookup, or date, you stay with them to the end of the evening.  You can make dates for later, or you can share, but no abandoning them to pursue some guy.

You're probably wondering how church went.

He cruised Brother Reid.