Monday, August 1, 2016
My Date with the Teenage Boy and His Mom
Plains, August 2016
August 1st! 2/3rds of the hot, unpleasant, excruciatingly boring summer is over. I've been going stir crazy with nothing to do all day but sit around the house and read snapchats from my friends in fabulous places.
I've been doing increasingly foolish things, like getting ice cream in the middle of the afternoon, watching Netflick movie recommendations, and picking up a teenager at the gym.
And his mother.
Saturday night I went to the gym a little later than usual, 5:00 pm. It closes at 7:00 on Saturdays, so I had to rush through my workout, and I was a bit annoyed by the two teenagers hogging the overhead press -- set on 40 pounds!
I asked if I could squeeze in between their sets, pushed past without waiting for an answer, and set the weight to my usual 180 pounds. Ok, I wanted to show off, so I set it at 200.
Suddenly I realized that they were staring in awe.
One of the mixed blessings about living in the Straight World is that most men are out of shape. A physique that is only average in a gay neighborhood surpasses 50% of the college jocks who work out at the campus gym, and at least 90% of the men who work out at the YMCA (men on the street, forget about it!)
As a result, you get cruised all the time, much more often in gay neighborhoods, especially by teenagers and twinks.
But the guys cruising you are struggling with 40 pounds on the overhead press!
One of the guys was cute, at least, Hispanic or Middle Eastern, dark skinned, with thick black hair and a soulful pout, probably hung to his knees.
But his friend: whitebread Plains Scandinavian, long brown hair, round face, long lashes, feminine lips, and those long, delicate hands that I find a complete turnoff.
I decided not to wait for them to go through their sets, and went on to the seated leg curl machine -- which does tend to puff up my chest.
Suddenly Whitebread was standing next to me, as if waiting for me to finish. "Almost done," I said.
"You're really good," he said. "Are you a bodybuilder/"
"No, but I used to work for a bodybuilder magazine."
He introduced himself as Thatch. He and his friend Rudy were new to the gym, "We thought if we got buffed it would help us get girls. Or whatever," he added with a high-pitched laugh.
The wheels clicked slowly as Thatch tried to make sense of this statement in his heteronormative gay-free world. No dates with girls -- but -- does that mean... Then he smiled broadly. "I gotcha. My friend is into that sort of thing, too. I never tried it with a dude before, myself -- I bet it's lots different than with a girl."
I started a new set. Thatch waited, staring at my chest and crotch. Was he expecting me to invite him to try it with a dude?
Never make a date with a guy who is looking for his "first time." But I was bored and lonely, it was flattering to be cruised by a Cute Young Thing, and maybe I could talk him into bringing along Rudy.
"Well, I'm not doing anything tomorrow night," I said, "But you might be nervous with just the two of us." I glanced at Rudy. "Why don't you bring your friend? Three is better than two."
Thatch's eyes lit up at the thought of two guys going down on him at the same time. "Really? That sounds cool. We can borrow my Mom's car. How's 8:00, after dinner?"
Always check the guy's age, especially if he has to borrow his Mom's car. But I figured, if he can drive a car, he's at least sixteen, the legal age in this state.
I gave Thatch my address and moved on to the free weight room. On the way I passed Rudy. "See you later!" I said, touching his shoulder. He looked at me quizzically.
Never invite two guys you don't know to your apartment. I wasn't worried about them becoming violent -- they were so skinny, I could snap them in half with one hand. But when there are two, it's hard to keep tabs on both. While you're going down on one, the other could be going through your drawers.
But there was no one for me to ask over to supervise. I have three friends who would be willing, but one was out of town, the other was working, and the third didn't respond to my texts.
On Sunday night I cleaned the apartment, put out some snacks in the living room and some condoms and lube in the bedroom, then surfed on Netflix, cruised on Grindr, and waited.
At 8:10 pm there was a knock on the door. Why didn't they ring the buzzer downstairs? I peeked through the security peephole.
Thatch was standing there with a girl!
Although she looked old enough to be his mother.
My mind was racing, trying to make sense of this craziness. I said I was into a three-way. I said I hadn't been on a date with a girl for 40 years. Raised with the heteronormative presumptions of the Straight World, Thatch assumed that I wanted to..
And he's into older men. Of course he's into older women, too.
There was nothing to do but invite them in and explain that I was gay, not bi.
I opened the door. "Hi, Thatch."
"Hi, Boomer. This is my Mom, Jessica."
Thatch wanted a three-way with his mother? Gaping in shock, I managed to shake their hands and invite them into the living room for sodas and snacks.
I sat on a chair as far away from Jessica and Thatch as possible as we discussed bodybuilding, Muscle and Fitness, my 10 years in the gay neighborhood of West Hollywood, the gay-friendly coffee house down the hill, and my ex-boyfriend Troy in New York. Jessica was not phased by my discussion of gayness, but she was excited that I worked at the university.
"I work in the admissions office" Jessica exclaimed. "We should have lunch tomorrow."
"Um...sure, that would be great." Just what I need -- a lunch date with a woman, the night after I have a three-way with her and her son.
"It's a date, then. Well, I should be going." She stood and kissed Thatch on the forehead. "Text me if you need a ride home later. Nice meeting you, Boomer." And she was gone.
I turned to stare at Thatch.
"I know, it's lame to bring your Mom along on a date, but Rudy wasn't into it, and she wouldn't let me come alone unless she could meet you. She wanted to make sure that you weren't some druggie or gang banger."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen. Why?" He came over to my chair, knelt, and kissed me. "I hope she didn't kill the mood."
Thatch was average beneath the belt, but as hard as an iron rod, and up for a full night of oral, interfemoral, and 69. He was so passionate that I almost forgot the craziness of bringing his mom along.
See also: Alan Hooks Up with a Father and Son